Gra Dorch
by Kara
Summary: Sometimes you just have to remember... AngelSpike ficlet


Grá Dhorch By Kara (anyalindir@aol.com)  
  
Rating: R  
  
Spoilers: Angel season 5 "Hell Bound," all of Buffy  
  
Summary: Sometimes you watch and remember.  
  
~*~*~*~*~  
  
He stood in the doorway to the master suite. Nothing else to do in an evil law firm at night. It'd been a long time since he watched his grand-sire sleep. Was odd enough to find him alone. Even Peaches looked small, lying by himself in that wide bed. There were nights (and days) when his grand- sire would've been surrounded: by Darla, by Penn, by his own dark princess. Dru was so obsessed with Daddy that Daddy had to play Sire to his own grandchilde. He remembered enough times in those early days when it had been him curled up in the chosen position at Sire's side.  
  
Had been a while since he watched anyone sleep peacefully. Those last few nights with the Slayer were spent rocking her. She never thrashed or cried in her sleep like Dru had, but even the bravest little bleached blond in the world didn't get any peace then, not with the weight of so many lives on her shoulders. Hopefully someone was rocking her to sleep now over in England.  
  
Now Angel twitched a bit. His Sire didn't breath or cry, but he made little grunts now and then. Not the good grunts that were usually followed by howls of release. These were the moans and sighs and all that rot that came with a soul these days. And the Powers knew that brooding hair boy collected guilt the way most people collected stamps or ex-lovers.  
  
But then the moans became words, and the words became names. Connor. Wesley. Once it was the name Doyle. And that harsh, dry sobbing that he hadn't heard since Angelus first became Soul-boy, and the Bitch Queen decided to toss him out on his poofy ass and break their happy little family.  
  
"Connor. Connor!" Raw pain, worse than a belly full of hot pokers. Worse than regaining a soul or maybe even losing the lover who meant the world to you. Drinking numbed that pain, but you couldn't drink in your sleep, while you dreamed. Or when you were a sodding ghost.  
  
Didn't take much to walk to the bed, carefully straddle that powerful chest, remembering times he'd ridden there over a century ago. Apparently the same spectral laws that applied to chairs applied to sitting on his sire too. He willed his hand to touch his Sire's face, since the ponce wouldn't feel his weight. He brushed back the dark hair that was still sticky and crunchy with the hair gel of the week. "Hush now, luv. It's only a dream. Only nancy-boys cry at dreams."  
  
Which made him a nancy-boy himself. But his Sire didn't need to know about those nights in the high school basement, when all of his own ghosts came to call. Angel understood all too well what fears were, and who the real nasties were that hunted at night.  
  
He hummed a little, combing his fingers through his Sire's carefully- coiffed hair. The songs were silly songs, bits of his own frightfully-bad poetry put to music to please his princess on her own bad nights. Angel liked his poetry for some reason. Which showed the poof had even worse taste than he thought. Barry Manilow and William the Fucking Bloody indeed.  
  
"Codail, mo dhorcha." It was easy enough to slip into Gaelic, the language that sounded beautiful even when it was growled in his Sire's rough voice. Fionn, Angel called him. Mo fionn ghrá, fair love to the darkness that was Angelus. Órga bhuachaill, golden boy.  
  
Laid himself full length against Angel's body, willed himself to be solid. Because his Sire needed him. "We're quite a pair, aren't we, luv?" His fingers trailed down to touch his Sire's cheek. "The only bloody vampires with souls in the entire world. We were bigger than those wankin' Beatles in our own time. Those were the days, yeah?"  
  
His Sire's solid bulk was cool to the touch. Hadn't changed much in the 100 years since he'd last been in this position. Except for that whole soul deal. What did her Slayerness think of that, sleeping next to such an undead mass? Must not've been too bad, since she actually demanded a repeat performance with William the Bloody. Was probably pretty nice in summer, when Sunnyhell only got sunnier and hellier.  
  
Angel twitched a little, finally settling down in his sleep. He murmured something, turning his head into the caress. He felt lips against his palm, tried to ignore the tingles that kiss managed to send down his nonexistent body. Tried not to let that unconscious touch mean anything, since it was just a comfort and even Batvamp didn't deserve to cry like that.  
  
"Will," his Sire breathed, his body shifting back and forth in a far too familiar motion. Figured that Angel would try and get off on a ghost. "Mo bhuachaill." Even in sleep, he could hear the emphasis on the my. Biting his lip, he concentrated on the thrusting, hoping this one moment lasted long enough so that it would carry him over more months of incorporeal nights. Luckily, his Sire still didn't have any stamina when it came to coming. That last gasp, the hips thrusting up was enough for him to reach his own completion. Let Angel's science chit figured out how spectral cum worked.  
  
The lines on his Sire's face relaxed and there was a sappy little nancy-boy smile on his face. At least the broodiness went away for a little while. Now he just had to hope that Angelus didn't awaken. Months ago, he wouldn't have cared if the hell-bent version of his Sire woke up and ravished the damn place. Even now, it's not like his Sire could actually use force on him. No body to beat and all that. But the Powers couldn't begrudge their dark avenger a little happy once in a while. Angel had to have succumbed to a wank sometime between the curse and sniving the Slayer. Technically, that little demonstration didn't involve two people since one of them was technically still a ghost. Technically. Fredlet could prove it with that endless babble of hers. Could probably even give Red a run for her money in sheer wordiness.  
  
These weren't his minions and it wasn't his place. But maybe there was still room for his Sire's golden boy. Maybe not in his bed, but at least in Peaches' undead poncy heart. 


End file.
